


Within a Woeful City

by Zoe Rayne (MontanaHarper)



Category: Action!
Genre: Dubious Consent, Early Work, Episode Tag, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-03-26
Updated: 2001-03-26
Packaged: 2017-10-11 20:15:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/116651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MontanaHarper/pseuds/Zoe%20Rayne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter Dragon finds himself facing his toughest negotiation yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Within a Woeful City

**Author's Note:**

> **Original A/N:** Thanks to Smaragd for inspiring me with her zine concept.
> 
> This story originally appeared in _Dance With the Devil_ , a slash zine published by Infinity Press. _Dance With the Devil_ is now out of print, but an online version in Acrobat format can be found in the [Infinity Press archives](http://zoe.vaportraces.com/infinity/infarch.html).
> 
>  **AO3 A/N:** This is an example of my very early fanfic. For historical purposes I'm leaving it as it was originally posted, including the summary.

> The gates of Hell are open night and day;  
> Smooth the descent, and easy is the way:  
> But, to return, and view the cheerful skies;  
> In this, the task and mighty labour lies.  
> —Virgil

Struggling for breath, an invisible elephant crushing his left arm and chest, Peter Dragon was only vaguely aware of the chaos surging around him. Black and white spots danced in his vision, merging into red and white lights flashing in time with the roar of his pulse.

Far away, someone was counting, "One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four, five..." The voice slowly faded to silence as his vision dissolved to black.

~ * ~ * ~

Air. It flowed, cool and soothing, into his lungs. The elephant was gone and Peter savored the simple act of breathing for the space of four or five heartbeats before opening his eyes.

The room was dimly lit, decorated in black and blood red, silks and velvets. Sitting across from him in a huge ebony...throne, for lack of a better word...was Bobby G., dressed to the nines and smiling like he owned the grosses on _Titanic_.

"Welcome to my home, Peter." Bobby gestured expansively around the room, smoke from his ever-present cigar a thick gray wreath around his head.

What Peter really wanted to ask was _What the **fuck** happened?_ but his schmoozing instinct took over and instead he heard himself say, "Hey, Bobby, this is really nice." _Looks like it was decorated by a whore. A **cheap** whore._ "Don't think I've ever seen this room. You guys build on an addition?"

Bobby laughed and just for an instant Peter thought he saw something—two somethings—on Bobby's head, black and glistening and looking suspiciously like horns. He shook his head. Must be a trick of the light reflecting on the cigar smoke.

"We're not at the beach house."

"Oh. So this is the Beverly Hills..." He trailed off as Bobby shook his head. "The penthouse?"

"You always were an idiot savant. Flashes of genius as a producer, but otherwise completely clueless. You're in Hell, Peter."

Hell? Right. Probably with a frog up his ass. He was so goddamn sick of this crap—the Hollywood viper pit, the tabloid press, prima donna actors and neurotic actresses, the fucking ASPCA and association of black bird actors. All he wanted to do was make movies that earned fabulous grosses, fuck aspiring starlets who had more curves than the 101 north, and die with a net worth greater than the gross national debt of a small South American country. Was that too much to ask?

Of course it was. Because he'd just had the absolute _worst_ first day of shooting in the history of the film business, had some kind of seizure that probably had hack reporters throughout Hollywood competing for the most bizarre expose' on his sexual habits involving frogs, and now here was Bobby G., trying to blow smoke up his ass. Like it wasn't bad enough that the goddamn troll had stolen Jane (twice!) and Georgia (which was even worse because trophy wives were a dime a dozen in this town but kids...kids were important). He was absolutely not going to put up with the crap anymore, with the threats not to green-light his next picture or to ruin him in the business.

"Don't fuck with me, Bobby. I don't need this shit. So what if _Slow Torture_ didn't get the numbers you were looking for. _Beverly Hills Gun Club_ is going to be the summer blockbuster to beat all blockbusters. And last time I checked, I'd given you and the fucking studio a pretty hefty profit with the last ten pictures, so just don't fuck with me." He took a deep breath and glared his best defiant glare.

But Bobby just shook his head condescendingly and took a drag on his cigar. "Peter, Peter, Peter. Surely this isn't a revelation for you? You didn't truly expect to go..." a significant glance upward "...there, did you?"

"Where I expect to go when I die isn't the point. The point is that I'm not dead, you are not Satan—regardless of the striking resemblance—and every minute that I'm away from the set is ten thousand dollars that we're going over budget. So do you mind cutting the crap and getting me a car back to the lot?"

Except maybe a little tiny part of the back of his mind was a little tiny bit worried about where he'd go after he died. Not that he thought he had a hell of a lot of choice, considering that he was a Hollywood producer. And the thing last week where he'd thrown the baby...that'd probably pretty much sealed his fate.

None of which mattered, since, as he'd just stressed to Bobby, he wasn't dead.

At least, he didn't feel dead. He was breathing, his heart was beating, and he was dying for a double scotch and a couple of valium. That sounded pretty much like life.

"You had a heart attack and died in the ambulance." Bobby leaned forward in the chair, adding even more intensity to his nearly overpowering presence. "All that stress, drinking, and drugs; you really should have taken better care of your body. You could've lived another thirty or forty years—"

A soft chime interrupted the lecture and Peter breathed a sigh of relief. Who wanted to live thirty or forty years if you had to do it in a drug-free, alcohol-free, and fat-free state? It was bad enough getting that kind of crap from people who lived the "virtuous" lifestyle, but getting it from a hedonist like Bobby G...

...and then Bobby's assistant stepped into view and Peter's train of thought derailed like a cross-country Amtrak. Not because the guy was naked and oiled up or because he looked like Arnold Schwarzenegger as sculpted by Michaelangelo.

No, it wasn't any of that. It was the tail. Long and ropy and flesh-colored, it sprouted from just above the guy's ass and ended in a spiny arrowhead some four feet later. The end of the tail was currently coiled around a glass of something amber and probably alcoholic. He could really use something alcoholic right now.

"Excuse me, Mr. Gianopolis." The demon's voice was perfect: masculine without being gruff, distinctive but not grating. Peter wondered if it was too late to lose Holden and give this guy the lead in _Beverly Hills Gun Club_ instead. "Scotch, Mr. Dragon?" A brief glance his way and the tail offered the glass to him; gingerly, he took it. "It's a madhouse out there, sir. The phone is ringing off the hook and several clients are holding for you."

"Just give me a quick rundown, Sariel. Peter and I still have a lot to discuss." Bobby settled against the back of the throne and propped one ankle up on the opposite knee.

The demon glanced down at his notepad. "Raymond Wagner is on line one, complaining that the grosses on _Snow Day_ weren't all you promised. Matt Damon is on two, requesting an amendment to his contract that includes a Best Actor Oscar next year." The tail flicked rhythmically in time with his words, as though he were ticking off the points. "Edward Marsh of Wolfram  & Hart is on three. He claims that our contract with his client is invalid because of a prior claim on Travolta's soul. He's faxing us copies of the Hubbard contract, ASAP."

A familiar rattling sound distracted Peter from the demon's monologue. He glanced down at the scotch, ice rattling against the glass as the hand holding the drink shook. He raised it to his lips and downed the contents in one gulp, ignoring the burning in the back of his throat and the watering of his eyes.

This was Hell. Fuck. He was not only dead, but sitting in Satan's office in Hell, listening to some demon flunky rattle off a list of people who had sold their soul for whatever little taste of fame and success they could get.

So it was pretty much business as usual.

Except that Bobby G. was in control down here—well, even more in control than he was up there. And there was no fucking way that Peter was going to go quietly into _this_ good night. If he'd somehow sold his soul to Bobby G. to get power and success, he wasn't about to give it up yet just because his heart decided things were a little bit stressful.

"Tell Wagner to read the fine print in his contract," Bobby said. "If Damon can get someone to co-sign the amendment, sure. Affleck would be a good choice, since _Reindeer Games_ was DOA and he's probably begging for a break right about now. And send the Wolfram  & Hart fax to legal; if it looks airtight to them, we'll drop our claim. But make sure Marsh knows that we expect some concessions on Cruise."

The notebook snapped shut. "One last thing, sir. Tim Robbins called with an emergency. He wants a retroactive casting change. I assured him that we could find someone to replace him in _Mission to Mars_ and give him Spacey's role in _American Beauty_ instead. I've scheduled him for eight o'clock tomorrow."

Bobby dismissed the demon with a wave and turned back to Peter. "So where were we?"

Thinking on his feet, a skill he'd developed while clawing his way up the Hollywood food chain, Peter pasted on his most sincere-looking insincere smile and prepared to begin the most serious negotiation of his life. "You were lecturing me on my unhealthy lifestyle. And you know what? You're right, Bobby, I should have taken better care of myself. So why don't you just send me back up there now..."

But Bobby was shaking his head; clearly it wasn't going to be that easy. "Now, Peter, why would I want to send you back up? You're here, you're mine, and I'm sure I can think of uses for your particular talents." He stood and stepped closer to Peter's chair until Peter had to either crane his neck to look up at Bobby's face or stare straight at his crotch. "I hear Cole Riccardi said you were particularly talented."

So that's what this crap was all about. One convenient lie to Cole, which had led inescapably down the slippery slope to mutual oral sex, and now Satan wanted a blowjob. The problem was that while he'd been Bobby G.'s whore before, it'd never been in the literal sense, and he'd _seen_ the size of Bobby's cock. Hell, it even made Wendy nervous, and that was saying something.

Something told him, though, that if he rejected the deal he'd still end up getting fucked and he wouldn't even get a free pass back to Life for his trouble. Why was it that he never seemed to have a choice on the big shit? He had his pick of dozens of scripts, hundreds of willing wannabe actresses, restaurateurs falling all over themselves for his patronage, but he could either suck Bobby G.'s dick voluntarily and get his life back or do it against his will for the privilege of staying dead and in Hell.

He remembered something Wendy had once said about fucking Johns who were less-than-appealing. _With your eyes closed, that cock could belong to anyone._

Hardly the kind of advice he thought he'd ever need, since at the time he'd figured it didn't matter _who_ the dick belonged to, it was still a dick and that was the real problem with it. Then there'd been that night with Cole, which hadn't been nearly as bad as he'd imagined (though a couple of days later, when Cole had "outed" him on national cable television— _that_ had been as bad as he'd imagined). Cole wasn't bad looking for a guy, he gave one hell of a blowjob, and he sure as hell wasn't Satan.

So he'd close his eyes and imagine that Bobby was Cole. Before he could change his mind, chicken out, he reached for Bobby's zipper.

And maybe he'd give Cole a call when he got back to the land of the living.

~ * ~ * ~

Red and white lights. Urgent voices. A blinding pain in his head and chest as the gurney was pulled out of the ambulance and rolled through the pneumatic doors into the emergency room.

"Wha'?" He was trying for more, but that was all he seemed to be able to get out.

A woman's voice. "Relax, Mr. Dragon. You're going to be fine. You had a mild heart attack, but we've got you stabilized and you're going to be fine."

> The damned are in the abyss of Hell, as within a woeful city, where they suffer unspeakable torments, in all their senses and members, because as they have employed all their senses and their members in sinning, so shall they suffer in each of them the punishment due to sin.  
> —Saint Francis de Sales


End file.
